Au revoir, motherfuckers.

( Private Text to Emmy Altava )


[VIDEO]

[Well, if you're familiar with the stores around Goldenrod (or even if you're not, and just happened to wander in there one day by chance) then the chances are good that you're aware of a music shop nestled amongst the larger stores and malls. More specifically and to the point, you may be aware of the piano set up within the shop itself - both for the sake of lessons to those willing to pay, and to advertise others like it for purchase. Descole is in here for neither, though had he the space he wouldn't be terribly opposed to the latter; for the last couple of days, he's come in when business is slow and settled himself behind the keys, sometimes playing, sometimes just running his hands over them lightly. Today, however, he is clearly settling for none of that. The camera clicks on after seeming to have been set up directly alongside the keys, showing nothing but his hands and a bit of the long ruffled sleeves covering the backs of them; he begins playing after a bit, and...uh. It's a bit difficult to say what in the world set him off but he's having at fairly hard and holding absolutely nothing back, his hands fast and firm on the keys. It's not anything classical, or even anything terribly classy; it's somewhat more akin to...well. While it isn't anywhere near exact, it's closer to this than anything.

Yeah. Um. There's probably something to be said for the fact that Descole is baring his soul to the world and it sounds sorta like Skrillex, but we won't go there.

His hands linger on the keys for a moment after the sound dies; the camera angle doesn't adjust any, leaving his face well out of the shot, but after a moment Descole speaks, his tone clipped and more abrupt than usual.

He's clearly a bit stressed; he's doing a terrible job of concealing it.]

I'm looking for ways to further improve myself. Anything at all. Physically, intellectually, I don't particularly care. Tell me what you excel at; I want to hear what your talents are.

I don't care that time doesn't pass back home, not while we're here; there is still such a thing as having been here too long. If I can't return to my life's work...

[He pauses for a moment; without warning, he slams his hands down heavily on the keys, the sudden clash ringing out sharply. One can...pretty much hear the rather alarmed sound of the shopkeeper in the background, telling him to watch it.]

I've had enough. Give me something to pursue.

[And with that, end feed.]

[The 'Gear had been an interesting thing to figure out - an amusing little toy, really; while calling it a puzzle would have been giving it entirely too much credit, Descole had enjoyed himself with it for a while. The afternoon had been spent watching the others post to the network; apparently he wasn't the only one that had randomly found himself stuck here. Really, there had been at least one other that day posting to say that they had found themselves in the same predicament.

How odd.

Tonight, his own feed comes alive, focusing in on a dimly-lit room and just enough of a figure to indicate that there's a person sitting in that chair over there, though he's leaning back and the camera is situated at an angle in relation to the person, keeping his face out of view of the camera. There doesn't appear to be too many distinguishing points about the individual, as he appears to be draped in a long black cape of some sort, though toward the upper corner of the frame, there's an obvious fluffy shock of white among all the dark folds of fabric, and the edges of his sleeves are ruffled and white, pale against what's visible of his hands where they're folded against what appears to be a desk or table of some sort.

All part of the act, of course; keep the audience guessing.

When he speaks, his voice is cordial, but almost stiffly formal - not quite rehearsed, but he's clearly been thinking about what to say for some time.]

Assuming this message manages to reach anyone, if someone would do me the favor of actually obliging me and letting me know where I am, that would be appreciated - there was a red-haired woman in here earlier claiming that she was doing exactly that, but unfortunately, she didn't say anything terribly useful.

[He leans forward a bit, the slightest hint of a smirk edging into the frame above that white boa.]

And if anyone just happens to know where my swords have gone...really, if you know what's in your best interests you'll return them as quickly as possible. I can't say there won't be any hard feelings, but I'm sure we can work something out.